Page 7 of Whisper
“Shit,” the vice president grumbled. “So he’s going to hide under Taliban skirts and claim tribal law?”
“The Taliban and al-Qaeda aren’t friends. Mullah Omar repeatedly ordered him to stop antagonizing the US. To stop giving interviews and drawing attention to themselves, and to the other Arab jihadist training camps. When Bin Laden pledged his allegiance to Mullah Omar, he was trying to pave over Omar’s complaints. Fix their relationship. But, right after his pledge, Bin Laden launched the embassy bombings in Africa. Mullah Omar was furious at him when the US attacked the training camps.”
“Why didn’t he kick Bin Laden out then?”
“Prince Turki of Saudi Arabia tried to convince Mullah Omar to hand him over, Muslim to Muslim. He flew to Afghanistan on a royal jet, big state visit. But Mullah Omar threw him out. He said he was sickened to see the prince of an Islamic state, and the guardian of the two holy cities of Islam, doing the bidding of the ‘infidel West’. He accused the prince of being atakfiri, an apostate.”
“Bet that went down well,” the vice president grunted.
“Turki stomped on the feast Mullah Omar had spread for them and stormed out.”
“So why not give him up this time? If he didn’t want Bin Laden attacking the US, then why is he willing to die for him now?”
Kris swallowed, images from the attacks flashing in the darkness behind his eyes every time he blinked. Flame, smoke, and screams. Papers fluttering like rain, falling as if time had slowed. Ash blanketing the world. Bodies falling, jumping. He shook his head. “Bin Laden assassinated General Massoud on September 10. He sent two al-Qaeda bombers, posing as journalists, to his command center. They blew themselves up and decapitated the leadership of the Northern Alliance, and the one man who was a serious threat to Mullah Omar. UnderPashtunwali, Bin Laden paid Omar a blood debt, one the Taliban will be honor bound to return. They will never hand him over, Mr. President.”
Silence. The president stared at him as if measuring his soul, taking the weight of his words. Finally, he nodded and sat back. “I don’t want to give the Taliban any maneuvering room on the world stage. We’re going to keep demanding they turn over Bin Laden. They’re demanding proof he is responsible. What do we have that we can show the world?”
“Source reporting from Kandahar and Khost. Jubilation in the streets. Our intercepts before the attacks. We knew they were planning something. We just didn’t—” Thatcher’s voice croaked, choked, and died. He looked down. “Whatever we show as proof will be exposed, Mr. President. We cannot burn sources and methods at this time. Not right before a war.”
Kris jumped in. “There’s Yemen.”
“Yemen?” The vice president frowned.
“TheUSS Colebombings. The FBI is running a fusion cell in-country, working on prosecuting the attackers in Yemeni courts. They have an al-Qaeda operative there, someone who used to be Bin Laden’s bodyguard, in jail. We could question him.”
The president nodded. “Get on it. I want confirmation for the world that Bin Laden was behind these attacks. Something we can show off.”
“Everything comes down to our response,” the vice president said. “Everything. We have to find these terrorists and we have to stop them. Wherever they are. By whatever means possible.”
“Geoff,” the president said, turning to the CIA director. “I want the CIA to be the first on the ground. As soon as possible.”
“Mr. President, we’re on our way.”
They hurried to the motorcade waiting outside the West Wing. Thatcher huddled with Williams as Kris followed, herded by hulking Secret Service agents.
Williams turned to Kris. “Great job. Take the last SUV back to your place and pack a bag. You’re going to Yemen. You leave in three hours.”
Chapter 2
Sana’a, Yemen
September 14, 2001
Kris sweated in the backseat of a creaking Yemeni government SUV, roaring through the capital, Sana’a. At one in the morning, the streets were deserted. Dust clung to Kris’s hair, scratched his eyes, filled his nose. Even in the middle of the night, the heat tasted like the air was burning.
Since September 11, all Americans in Yemen moved at night, under the glowering auspices of the Yemeni national police.
Clint Williams had arranged for a private CIA jet to fly him directly to Yemen. He was the only passenger. He’d spent the fifteen-hour flight reading everything the FBI had on the incarcerated al-Qaeda terrorist.
Abu Tadmir was the former bodyguard of Bin Laden and theemir, the leader, of one of the guesthouses for Arab fighters traveling to Afghanistan to join with al-Qaeda. His guesthouse was connected to the advanced tactics training camp where the hijackers had most likely received specialized instruction.
On the flight, Kris received a cable from Langley. It had been confirmed: one of the hijackers had stayed at Tadmir’s guesthouse. In fact, the hijacker was called “a friend” of theemir. They’d spent Ramadan together in 1999. They were close.
Finally, the SUV pulled up at the Yemeni federal detention facility. Two Americans in cargo pants, fleece vests, and ball caps waited inside the gates. Gold badges hung on chains around their necks.
“FBI,” his Yemeni driver grunted. He didn’t sound thrilled to see the agents.
Both FBI agents stared Kris down through the dusty windshield. They didn’t say hello as he climbed out of the SUV or came to their side.
